Past Blogs

The babies arrived last week, and they’re adorable. Our neighborhood raccoon moms brought their offspring to The Tooley Cafe for a debut visit. We looked out one night to see an explosion of raccoons… four adults and eight little ones.

By the time the mothers bring their babies out into the world, the kids are well-rounded furballs with miniature masks and ringed tails. Only a curmudgeon could resist their charm.

Raccoons have only one litter a year. Mating time is from the last week in January to the middle of March. The gestation period is 63 to 65 days. Litters range from two to seven with an average birth weight of three ounces. The new-born’s eyes are closed for about 20 days. By the time we get to see the new family members they weight about three or four pounds.

Raccoons are gregarious, looking for food with their family group. The scene in our yard the other night beat anything “Animal Planet” could produce in terms of entertainment value. One raccoon was draped across the roof of the house-shaped bird feeder scooping out seeds. Another was hanging upside down on the tube feeder busily pulling out seeds through the cage. Some of the youngsters were swinging wildly in the tray feeder while they stuffed themselves. The table feeder on the ground was filled with kids sitting on it and chowing down. Everyone else was milling around on the ground bumping into each other as they scavenged for fallen seeds.

While this feeding frenzy was going on, I spotted a skunk walking through the woods behind the feeders. Although he is a frequent diner at the Cafe, he apparently chose not to enter the fray.

At this time of year we like to say “it’s raining raccoons.” At any loud noise or intrusion, all the baby coons scramble up into the pine trees. Since their climbing skills aren’t completely honed yet, we can hear them plopping and falling out of the trees when they begin the trip down.

My husband keeps the bird feeders well supplied with oiled sunflower seeds, the Cadillac of wildlife food. On the way home from the farm store last week, he had to have the convertible top down in his little two-seater car. The seed bags were stacked too high to fit any other way.

With the help of our neighbors we salvaged the boat benches last week. We now have some very comfortable seating down on the beach.

Hopefully, our blue vinyl couch won’t be re-salvaged or reclaimed by the waves any time soon. According to local rumors, the entire boat was abandoned and left to the mercy of the waves.

I’m a born beachcomber, always eager to see what daily treasures have washed up on the shore. My beach glass collection is getting fairly impressive… I can’t lift it anymore. But I’m also fascinated by larger detritus.

Last year an old fashioned phone receiver repeatedly washed in. We would pick it up, make a faux call, toss it back in and find it a week later in a different location. Recently, a large sign for I-43 appeared… perhaps in case directions from the beach to the freeway were needed.

Lone shoes, tennis balls, children’s sand-toys and fishing gear are the most common beach gifts. A handy, plastic-laminated “Guide to Sport Fish of the Great Lakes” was one of my favorite finds. Bet the fish are laughing.

There’s a coastal tradition of putting an old table (or constructing a table from salvaged wood) on the beach or cottage porch. Interesting flotsam and jetsam are displayed on the table. Our neighbor a mile down the beach has a great display. Currently, he is exhibiting 2 duck decoys, 1 life preserver, a 3-inch diameter piece of rope and numerous shoes… and the season is only beginning.

My daughter once suggested that I have an inordinate fondness for limes. This remark was made as she was rummaging through our refrigerator trying to find some sparkling water in a flavor other than lime. Of course, there was none. I find lime to be… sublime.

My love of lime started long ago. As a kid, I would get my allowance, walk to the corner store and buy my favorite treat, a lime popsicle. More allowance would be spent on Chuckles. These sugar covered candies were cherry, licorice, orange, lemon and lime. The lime one was, by far, the best and was consumed first.

My husband is not as much of a lime fanatic as I. However, when he worked in Milwaukee, he had a summer ritual. Every day over 95° he headed to Kopps Drive-in for “a greasy grilled cheese and a gigantic lime shake”.

Naturally, I’m in lime heaven when I visit Key West. I skip from one Key Lime Pie to the next. But for some odd reason, I’ve always thought that Key Lime Pie was extremely difficult to make. I never even looked up a recipe.

A few months ago I ran into a huge sales promotion of “Nellie & Joe’s Key West Lime Juice” in a grocery store. On the back of the bottle was a recipe with only 4 ingredients for Key Lime Pie. I was skeptical. Could it really be this simple?

I baked the pie. It was luscious. The raccoons in the Tooley Cafe got no leftovers.

Cast off all thoughts of calories and nutrition. Just buy one 9 inch graham cracker pie shell. Then combine 3 egg yolks, 1 fourteen ounce can sweetened condensed milk and ½ cup lime juice. Pour into the shell and bake 15 minutes at 350°. Chill before serving.

With tongue in cheek, tell your guests it’s an old family recipe that you slaved hours to make. I doubt that their taste buds will detect your tall tale.

Springtime is like Fridays… both are wonderfully filled with promise.

In the case of Fridays, the work week is over, and the weekend is waiting with possibilities galore for serendipitous things to occur.

Springtime is equally filled with expectation; the glorious expanse of summer looms ahead.

But I’m a traveler, and the journey is as important as the destination. If I could have only one time of the year, it would be now. The trees are almost, but not quite, leafed out, flowers are in brilliant profusion and everything is energized.

The light is the best part… it never quits. I mark the northward journey of the sun by a distant telephone pole I see from my kitchen window. The setting sun is inching toward that pole every night, which means we are still getting more daylight to see the beauty of spring at its fullest.

I’m particularly inclined to road trips at this time of year. For me, driving down the sun on a pre-solstice evening is about as good as it gets. I’m with Serge Storms (but I’ll insert the state of my choice).

“Serge’s definition of total happiness: Florida, a full tank of gas and no appointments.”

It’s comforting to know a country exists that worries about its G.N.H., gross national happiness, more than its G.N.P., gross national product.

That country would be Bhutan, a wee Himalayan kingdom, wedged between China and India. Correction: it is no longer a kingdom since the beloved king resigned last year. He concluded that his 700,000 subjects would be happier living in a democracy.

I’m not making this up. If you have read Eric Weiner’s delightful book, The Geography of Bliss, you know that certain countries rank higher than others in the overall happiness of their citizenry. America “is no happiness superpower.” The Netherlands, Switzerland and tiny Bhutan rank extremely high, while Moldova is “the least happy nation on the planet”.

Bhutan is a Buddhist country which might explain their emphasis on bliss. Buddhists put a high premium on happiness and can’t conceive of others not doing likewise. The world’s most famous Buddhist, The Dalai Lama, says, “The basic fact is that all sentient beings, particularly human beings, want happiness…”

Bhutan got a new constitution last year, and all government programs must be judged not by their economic success, but by the happiness they produce. To measure how things are working, the Bhutanese have created an evaluation system that features the four pillars, the nine domains and the 72 indicators of happiness. These people are serious about their joy.

The Bhutanese are equally serious about the Buddhist belief that “there is nothing greater than compassion.” I think they are definitely on to something here. The most self-absorbed people I’ve met also appear to be the most miserable. A nice trip to Bhutan might be in order.